


stay (just a little bit longer)

by subtext-is-my-division (Quill_A)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AH YES, Anal Sex, Angst, Break Up, Break up sex, Car Sex, Don’t copy to another site, Dysfunctional Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, I have no regrets, I'm not even kidding, Just to be safe, M/M, PWP, Plotless, Reunion, Rough Sex, SO, Semi-Public Sex, Teenlock, Well - Freeform, bottomlock, consider yourself warned, face fucking, hooo boi look at those tags go, i am trash and so is this fic, it has been pointed out to me that John is very soft in this fic, maybe some regrets, possibly mildly dubious consent, self indulgent, sherlock is a bit of a bossy bottom, soft john, the holy trinity, this is just absolute filth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 15:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20260093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quill_A/pseuds/subtext-is-my-division
Summary: “Sherlock,” John murmurs, struggling to keep his voice level. Sherlock moves his lips down John’s chin, licks at the lobe of his ear before burying his face in the crook of John’s neck. “Oh,fuck,Sherlock,listen-“ Sherlock makes a vaguely interested noise, drags the length of his clothed erection over John’s.“We can’t, not here. Someone willsee-“ his voice hitches as Sherlock’s cold fingers slip under his shirt, rest over his abdomen. “Your parents, I don’t know.”We shouldn’t be doing thisanywhere, John thinks, but it’s kind of difficult to be logical when he has a lapful of Sherlock, with his slender legs on either side of his waist, his hands on his skin and his breath in his ear.Sherlock hums, not taking him seriously atall. “Notif you’re quiet."John may not be an expert, but he's pretty sure that shagging your ex is a bloody awful idea.(Shame the sex is so good, though.)





	stay (just a little bit longer)

**Author's Note:**

> "ughhh quill why would u write this nonsense and dump it on your poor unsuspecting readers instead of getting back to your WIPs like a functioning adult???"  
ummm idk guys i dk ,,,,,
> 
> (SIDE NOTE: kind of takes place in the same universe as 'over us all to reign', but this is absolutely plotless so you can read it as a standalone too)

John is so sure that the universe really, truly hates him.

There isn’t any other explanation for this terrible, awful, _torturous _situation. _Torment. _Because John hasn’t spoken to him for over four months, has barely caught glimpses of him in school. Sherlock would sit in the last row in class, (as usual) and there would always be someone sitting next to him. On the off chance that John managed to catch a seat, Sherlock would stubbornly refuse to even _look _at him.

But he’s here now, and before John can even wonder what Sherlock would be doing at a _party, _and this kind of party, nonetheless- with cheap beer and incessant grinding- the kind of music that Sherlock abhors thumping from speakers- his mouth dries and there it is, that pull.

It hurts, to look at him. It hurts all the time, but more so now, when he’s so close, just a few strides away and John might actually be able to _touch _him. John squints his eyes to see through the dim lights, the scent of Bella’s floral perfume nothing more than a _bother _right now, and she’s pressing up against him, tits against his elbow, and John really, _really _isn’t interested.

“Hmm,” he murmurs, in response to whatever she’s saying, because he doesn’t want to be _rude, _and besides, she’s too drunk anyway. “Yeah.”

Sherlock hasn’t noticed him yet. It takes John a few more seconds to realise why. He’s pressed up against a wall, head bowed. John can’t see his expression from here, but from the way his knuckles are pressed white around the still-full bottle of lager, he can tell he isn’t happy. There’s a boy in front of him- John can’t tell who he is, but he looks a bit older than most of the students here. Uni, probably, and what is he doing here, anyway? So he can hit on underage girls?

Or boys, from the way his fingers close around Sherlock’s bicep. Slide up, up, until it curves around his neck. John can’t breathe, and his vision is already so fuzzy from the amount of alcohol in his system. The bloke bends lower, until his lips are against Sherlock’s ear, and it doesn’t take much- just the slightest shiver on Sherlock’s part, the barest leaning away, he tilts his head to put distance between his skin and the bloke’s mouth-

John can read his body like a book, can tell from the trembling of his thighs when he’s about to spill into John’s mouth, can tell from the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he finds something amusing, and can tell from the stiffness in his limbs as he tries to _get away, _that whatever the bloke is doing is unwanted.

And that’s all that John needs.

In hindsight, it’s a bloody awful idea, but John is drunk, and he hasn’t seen Sherlock properly in months and _oh god, _he’s missed him, he’s missed him- so he steps right up to the bloke, ignores Bella’s “John, what the hell-“ curls his fingers into the back of the bloke’s (fucking poncy) shirt and pulls him back, away from Sherlock.

He’s handsome, maybe. Posh-looking. Expensive clothes, stupid fucking grin on his face, and how dare he get into Sherlock’s space like that, how dare he touch him when he clearly doesn’t want it, Sherlock is _his, _he ought to bash his face in, fucking _twat-_

“Back the fuck off,” he growls, and the music is too loud for anyone to notice, John is glad for that, Sherlock would have hated the attention.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice is incredulous, squeaky. “John, what-“

“Why?” the bloke asks, and his breath stinks of whisky. “You wanna share? I don’t mind. Do you, love?” he turns towards Sherlock and raises a dark eyebrow.

John doesn’t even look at Sherlock. The bloke is taller than him, but John could take him, easy. John could tackle him to the ground and pummel him with his fists.

_Easy. _

He doesn’t, though. All he does is rear his fist back in reply and ram his knuckles into the sharp edge of a cheekbone, and then there’s a groan, Sherlock’s gasp, the bloke stumbles and has to flail around to catch himself against the opposite wall, lest he tumble to the ground. Which would have been more satisfying. John could have kicked him. In the ribs.

This seems to draw attention, excited whispers flurry around them. Sherlock utters a low groan, and god, John didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. He’s about to turn around and apologise, but the Stupid Posh Bloke seems to have regained his balance and he cuffs him right across the mouth. John’s vision blackens for a second, blood pools in his mouth, metallic and disgusting. The bottle he had held in his hand falls to the ground and shatters, the tinkle of glass surprisingly loud despite the _thump-thump-thump _of the bass. He bends over, swipes his palm across his lips, and the skin comes away smeared with pinkish red.

“Right,” he mutters under his breath. A small crowd of people has gathered around them, the rest of them still too engrossed in getting a leg over or some such similar pursuit to notice. John doesn’t really care. He’s been feeling stretched thin for too long, worn and restless, the absence of the Sherlock-shaped space by his side too painful to think about. He reaches forward and grabs the bloke’s shoulders, knees him right in the solar plexus. He utters a pained _oof, _doubles over. Satisfaction curls low and dark in his gut, and John is just about to land another blow because he’s _just _getting started- when someone grabs his jacket, and Sherlock’s mouth is near his ear, his voice low and menacing. “Stop it,” he growls, darkly, and then he’s pulling John away, from that fucking arsehole, from the crowd that’s slowly enlarging and drunkenly hankering for a good brawl.

“Sherlock,” he slurs, incapable of saying anything else. Sherlock is pulling him along a hallway, devoid of too many people, through a room or so- surroundings melt into a bit of a blur.

“Shut up,” Sherlock mutters. “Just shut up. Don’t say anything.”

John obediently tamps his mouth shut. This is probably the first time he’s touched Sherlock since they—since _he- _he swallows past a hard lump in his throat, deciding not to dwell on it.

Although it’s difficult not to. John finds his eyes drawn to the curve of Sherlock’s pale neck, the tangle of wild curls hanging just over his ears, curling at the sides, fine boned fingers clutched around the material of his jacket. He can only see the side of his face from this angle, elegant ridge of his cheekbone, _god, _John is _aching. _

“Where-“ he begins, but Sherlock shoots him a glare that could slice him to shreds. “Okay,” he finishes lamely. Blood is beginning to dry, tacky and gross, around his mouth.

He takes them through a door, onto some kind of porch. It opens into a garden, well kept, quite big. But then, Henry Knight is wealthy. At least, he thinks that’s whose house he’s in. He’s not entirely sure.

Thankfully, he’s saved from thinking about that too much because he’s being pushed into a seat. A bench. Sherlock stands in front of him, there’s a lamp that swings lightly in the wind, shadows dance and flit across his pale skin, and John has never seen anything more beautiful.

Except Sherlock looks nothing short of enraged right now, silver eyes flashing as he sticks his arm out rather violently to hand him a tissue. John takes it quietly and presses it against his mouth.

“That,” Sherlock begins, and he’s breathing hard. “Was ridiculous. I am quite capable of taking care of myself.”

Several responses crawl up John’s throat and wait patiently in his mouth.

_You didn’t look like you were taking care of yourself._

_I don’t like it when anyone else touches you._

_Let me kiss, you, please_

_I miss you, I miss you, god-_

Instead he’s suddenly standing up, and Sherlock’s eyes widen slightly, he takes an uncertain step back, the fury in his eyes dying a bit and being replaced by something like trepidation. John is very close to him, and he steps even closer, because he’s angry, why did Sherlock have to be here? Why couldn’t Sherlock just be clever like he always is, and just be able to _tell _that John would also be at this sorry party because he’s a bit of a loser, been like this since Sherlock decided to walk away without a second glance and he was hoping he could maybe drink till he passed out-

“Why are you here,” he asks, and it comes out so accusing. John regrets it immediately when Sherlock’s mouth pulls into a straight line and that familiar cold mask falls over his face. Sherlock would only look like that when John had hurt his feelings really, really badly.

“I-“ he begins, and then he seems to decide against it. “Why? Why do I owe you an explanation? You don’t- you don’t _own _me.”

John wants to argue that he does, in a way, because Sherlock had promised him, that they belonged to each other, that Sherlock had as much a claim over him as John did, but instead his shoulders slump and he lets out a sigh. “I’m sorry,” he says, quietly, and he can’t look at Sherlock, because if he looks at him, he will want to touch him, and he can’t do that, because he isn’t _allowed._

Silence stretches between the two of them, what seems like hours and hours. Sherlock’s breathing is surprisingly level.

“Give me that,” he mutters, and takes the tissue from John’s hand. He wasn’t aware that he was even holding it. Sherlock steps closer to him, raises a shaking hand and dabs lightly at the corner of his mouth. John’s gaze flicks over him, his bottom lip pinned by his teeth, eyes wide and cheeks just the tiniest bit flushed. “It’s going to bruise.”

“Don’t care,” John grumbles. “I think it’d be a good look.”

Sherlock hums. “I was tutoring Henry. He asked me for help. And then he asked if I wanted to stay for the party, and I said no, but he seemed quite adamant to have me, so I stayed. Which was a terrible idea, obviously. Should have gone home to my experiment. I didn’t know you’d be here.”

His arm falls to his side. John’s gaze moves up from the bloodstained tissue to Sherlock’s face, luminescent skin, dark hair. He looks slightly apologetic, which is a new look for him. He shouldn’t be, it’s not his fault.

It explains things though, he thinks dully. His mind is moving even more sluggishly than the drunken state would cause. He’s watching Sherlock’s mouth, pink and plump and John wants so badly to kiss him, because it’s impossible, to be so close to him, and not touch him.

He’s leaning forward before he even knows what he’d doing, he’s fitting his lips against Sherlock’s closed mouth, one hand curling into the material of his shirt, right around his abdomen. Part of it is to pull Sherlock closer towards him, part of it is to keep his balance.

It’s a quick kiss, dry and chaste, because if he’d continued on for a second longer it wouldn’t be any of those things.

Sherlock stares back at him, his lips part slightly, his cheeks flushed.

“I’m sorry,” John whispers, and his voice sounds oddly broken. “I-“

He thinks Sherlock is going to punch him, or walk away, or look at him coldly and tell him to never ever speak to him again, and he would deserve all of those things, but instead, he’s fisting his hands into his shirt, pulling John up onto the balls of his feet and kissing him instead.

A very, very tiny part of him, the reasonable, responsible part of him that he’s known for, tells him _no, _tells him _stop _and _this is a really, really bad idea._

But the other part- the selfish, drunk part- the part that has been aching for the feel of Sherlock’s skin against his own for ages, pushes him to catch Sherlock’s narrow hips, pull him flush against his own body, walk backwards until he can feel the wall against his back.

Sherlock’s mouth is wet, warm, and eager- exactly how John remembers him. John twists them around so he has Sherlock pushed up against the wall instead, and he eases a leg between his. His hips press desperately against his, seeking out friction.

Oh god, _oh god, _he’s going to come like this, he hasn’t touched him in so long. Eager hands slip under Sherlock’s shirt, find the warm, soft skin underneath, dig in. John’s mouth slips downwards, moves wetly along his chin, that spot underneath his ear that- _yes- _makes Sherlock keen and throw his head back, the pale column of his neck stretches out like an offering.

“John-“ he gasps, and _oh, _that’s lovely- that sound is something John hasn’t heard in a while. “We- we shouldn’t.”

John can’t argue against the logic of this statement. They really, really shouldn’t. They’re not together anymore, the only thing this will do is worsen their relationship beyond all repair. (More so than now)

“Yeah,” he breathes, licking a line down the side of his neck, satisfaction rolling down his body as Sherlock shivers underneath his touch, hips cupping forward to meet John’s growing hardness. He curls his hands around the cage of his ribs, and Sherlock spreads his legs, just a little, fingers find their way into John’s hair.

“Doesn’t- doesn’t mean anything,” he reminds John, and yeah, of course it doesn’t, because Sherlock doesn’t want him like that anymore.

“Should I stop,” he asks, because this seems like a good moment to ask, before he pulls his zipper down and gets on his knees.

“No,” Sherlock says immediately, and to emphasise this, he cups his hands under John’s jaw and angles his head up, kisses him slow and deep and _filthy. _John bites his lip, ever so lightly, and Sherlock falters, a sharp intake of breath.

“Want you,” John murmurs against his mouth, licks into him. Hands brush over his nipples, they harden under his touch. He can feel Sherlock’s abdomen fluttering, cock twitching against his thigh. He’s still wearing his uniform, the poncy little git. John wants to hold onto him, never let go.

“Okay,” Sherlock assents, thumbs sweeping over his cheekbones. “Have me, then.”

John doesn’t waste any more time, and another reason this is a bad idea: anyone could see them. But Sherlock doesn’t care, he’s mindlessly rutting against John’s clothed erection, mouth pressed against his temple, breaths uneven and laboured.

He kisses down his throat, slides onto his knees and unzips him quickly; he has to have him, right now. Pulls down the waistband of his pants- (dark blue, posh things, John practically aches at the familiar sight of them) just enough to release his cock. He slips his mouth over him, tonguing over the tiny bead of pre-come at the tip, and Sherlock’s hips immediately shift, pressing himself in deeper.

“John-“ he moans, voice low and deep and _gone, _fingers sliding into his hair. “F-fuck.”

Sherlock’s propensity to utter profanity during sex is something John can never get enough of. It encourages him to take him in deeper, until his cock hits the back of his throat. He grips Sherlock’s bony hips and flattens his tongue around the tip, feels the fuzz of hair against his nose.

God, he’s even missed what he _tastes _like.

He wants Sherlock to fuck his mouth, so he does what he used to, before- moves his hand down then back up the backs of his thighs- sensitive, (like that spot under his ear, the edge of his collarbones, his nipples) and then grabs two handfuls of his arse. Sherlock immediately utters a garbled moan, hips shove in, hard.

John chokes, just a little. Good boy, he wants to tell him, because Sherlock used to like that. (Would he still?) John adjusts around the length of him, swallows around him, and lets Sherlock thrust inside his mouth. He usually doesn’t (wouldn’t) except when John encouraged him, always too worried about choking John. (except he quite liked it when John did it to him, so why couldn’t he return the favour?)

But when he’s like this, too far gone, pleasure dictating his movements- the roll of his pelvis shaky and desperate, Sherlock stops caring.

John feels spit pool at the corners of his mouth, can feel his eyes tearing up a little, and god, that feels good. He pulls down Sherlock’s jeans, just a little, so he can press his hands into the curve of his arse. Cool skin, under his flushed hands. _That’s it, that’s it, _he thinks, as Sherlock stops saying his name and instead just starts uttering half-bitten vowel sounds.

“Ah- _Joh-_god, fu-_hnngh- _that’s…ah, _god-“_

High and breathy, he only sounds like that during sex. His fingers tighten almost painfully in John’s hair.

“Going to- going to-“ he warns him, the sentence ending in another wordless moan. His thighs tremble, the thrust of his hips grow a little quicker, losing all finesse.

John is confident in his ability to make Sherlock come twice, maybe thrice, except that would take time, which unfortunately, they don’t have. So he slips his mouth off Sherlock’s cock. A string of saliva pulls and snaps, and Sherlock cock dribbles, some of it falls on John’s knee, darkens the denim of his jeans.

He utters a low, frustrated groan, _thumps _his head back against the wall. “_John,_” he complains.

John rises to his knees, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His own erection strains almost painfully against the front of his pants. Sherlock presses his palm against it, John hisses before grabbing both wrists and pinning them on either side of his head. Sherlock’s breath quickens, his usual response to being handled roughly. His are eyes dark and hooded and regard John expectantly.

John kisses him hungrily, licks into him like he can’t get enough, like he’s drowning. Sherlock only pants, open mouthed against him, his wrists shifting restlessly against his grip.

“Want,” John begins. “Want to fuck you. Can I?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answers, without missing a beat, and John is unzipping himself, releasing a groan of relief as his cock springs free. Sherlock immediately presses forward, damp skin against damp skin, and John nearly loses it right there.

He lets go of his wrists so he can use his hands to pull Sherlock’s jeans down, his pants, so that they’re bunched around his pale thighs. Sherlock immediately turns around, curves a hand around John’s side and pulls him closer.

“Please,” he begs.

They don’t have any lube, which is inconvenient, but then Sherlock closes his hand around John’s wrist and pulls his fingers into his mouth.

He licks over the skin, wet and sloppy and practically gags on them. John’s cock twitches at the feel of it, at the occasional sharp sting of Sherlock’s teeth. He lets John fuck his mouth with his fingers, swipes his tongue over the skin until it’s soaking and sticky, and then guides John’s hand back to his arse.

“Go on then,” he orders him.

The preparation is perfunctory at best, he fingers him open as quickly as possible. Sherlock stretches both his arms to the wall and supports himself against his palms, curves his body backwards and pleads with John to hurry. If they had more time, John would have liked to get on his knees and- well, maybe not such a good idea to think about that, considering he’s five seconds to coming as it is.

Sherlock doesn’t even touch himself, just glides his hole over John’s fingers, in tandem with his movements. John finds his prostate and crooks his finger, watches in satisfaction as Sherlock cries out and a shudder rips through his body.

“No more,” he says, sounding broken and helpless and John wants him so, so badly. “John, please, just-“

John slips his fingers out, and Sherlock’s back arches at the loss of touch. For a moment John wants to swipe his hair away from his neck, leave a trail of kisses on the skin, but he stops himself.

Instead he presses a mouth against his shoulder, rucks up his shirt around his ribs and grabs him there, holds him against his chest so that his cock can rest between his cheeks.

“Wait,” he says, suddenly, and Sherlock’s groan is practically animalistic,

_“Why_?” he growls, and pushes back against him, moves his arse over his cock in a very sluttish way that makes John sweat.

“No, stop, just-“ he swallows, slides his hands down to his hips, and turns him around, pushes him back up the wall.

Sherlock regards him with wide eyes, hair a damp mess, frizzing at the tips. “You-“

“Want to see you,” John finishes for him. “Please?”

Sherlock looks oddly uncertain- and maybe that is too intimate, for them. Maybe you’re not supposed to look at each other when you fuck after you’ve broken up, but then again, John is about to fuck him on somebody’s porch gone midnight, so no part of this is normal anyway.

Sherlock’s jaw tightens and he nods once, sharply.

It takes a bit of manoeuvring. John hitches Sherlock’s leg around his waist except the position isn’t that great for penetrative sex among two males, and Sherlock just huffs a frustrated breath and calls him an idiot.

“This- isn’t working,” John mutters.

“How do you want me?” Sherlock’s voice is a ragged, breathy thing. He grips John around the back of his head, his leg tightening around his waist.

John stills. Sherlock’s breath plays over his face, and he can’t move, for a few seconds.

_All the time_, he thinks. _Every way. _In his bed, against his chest, hand in hand. Disgusting, sentimental ways, Sherlock would scoff.

He wants him back, so desperately.

“Just like this,” he says instead, and hooks both arms under his arse. He’s light, always has been, (maybe a bit more now, and why is that? Is he not taking care of himself properly? Now that John isn’t around, who pushes him to eat and sleep?)

It’s easy enough to lift him off his feet, and Sherlock takes the hint and wraps both legs around his waist. His jeans hang somewhere around his ankles, and his cock is hard and leaking. John hoists him higher, his arms shake a bit with the effort, but then- fuck- his cock brushes against Sherlock’s entrance. He watches as Sherlock takes a strained breath, swallows, the skittish bob of his Adam’s apple. John presses his mouth against his neck and nuzzles, maybe a bit too tender for this. Sherlock’s arms tighten around his shoulders and his hips bear down- just enough for the tip of John’s cock to breach him.

Sherlock hisses above him- it’s going to be tight, he can already tell, they’re only working with spit and pre-come here.

Still, John can’t hold on much longer. This position is not conductive to slow- and neither of them wants to take their time anyway. He breathes in, deep, and pushes upward.

Sherlock gasps, loudly, just the barest hint of pain, and he buries his head in the crook of John’s neck. John slides in as slow as possible, but even so the angle is shallow and just a bit uncomfortable. Sherlock is shaking.

“You okay?” he asks, and it seems a little out of place, the question. But he always asks, always. He’d look down at him when they were in bed, Sherlock sprawled underneath him, cheeks flushed eyes dark- _you alright? Does it hurt? Want me to stop?_

And sometimes Sherlock would say _Go slower, _or _more lube, John- _but usually he’d just bite his lip and grab John by the back of his neck, press their lips together. _Keep going. _

“Fine,” he answers now, brusquely. “Move.”

He starts slow, has him against the wall and slides out before pushing back in, even in his drunken haze. It’s really not a safe place to do this, anyone could see, anyone could come out, but Sherlock is so deliciously tight and hot around him that John finds it awfully difficult to care.

He gives him time to adjust before he starts to set a rhythm, sets Sherlock on his cock more securely so he can move them both. Arms underneath his knees, hoists him up. Sherlock’s mouth is open, head resting against the wall, his fingers creep up along John’s nape, brush against the ends of his hair.

“Sherlock,” John slurs. “I-“

“Don’t talk,” Sherlock breathes out roughly, before he lowers his head to set his forehead against John’s. “Just fuck me.”

There’s something odd about the way he says it- desperate, the low tone of urgency, as if Sherlock will fall apart if John doesn’t shag him senseless.

But he knows what it actually means; if he talks, John will say something ridiculous and stupid like _I love you _or _Please come back _and that’s going to ruin the mood because this is all Sherlock wants, a dirty fuck on someone’s porch. Wants John to be quiet because words are bad, words are awful.

“Fine,” John bites out, a tiny bit bitter, and he pushes in, hard. He feels a little guilty because Sherlock yelps at the sudden movement but then he makes sounds that John is very, very familiar with, so he keeps going.

Plush arse against his pelvis, Sherlock’s smooth, flawless skin. John would have liked to spread him out, kiss him all over. He doesn’t mind this, he’s fucked Sherlock plenty against walls and over tables, against bookshelves (a personal favourite) but usually, afterwards, he’ll straighten Sherlock’s collar and kiss him, and they’ll go out for hot chocolate later.

Now, though, John bounces Sherlock on his cock and sinks his teeth into his neck and nothing escapes their mouths except, _faster, John, god- _and _yeah? You like that?_

And it’s horrible, except Sherlock feels so good around him, John could fuck him like this for hours. He can smell him, the clean, smoky scent of him- cigarettes and cologne, the slight tang of the chemicals he works with all day, something like old paper.

John wants him, there’s no way around it, he fits around him like he’s made for no one else. He gasps each time John hits his prostate, like he’s so surprised it can feel that good. Once or twice John can see him bite his lower lip and screw his eyes shut and he slows down, but then Sherlock will glare at him and tighten the grip of his coltish legs around his waist. “Don’t you _dare,_” he snaps at him, and bears down so harshly that John sees stars.

Surroundings melt into nothing after that. There is only Sherlock, his breath, his hands in his hair, the high, needy noises he makes as John fucks into him, hard and fast. He can’t even finish John’s name, just moans the first syllable like it’s all he knows. Each thrust pushes it out of him, John listens to the whimpers that fall from his mouth and fuck, that’s good, that’s right babe, come on, open your mouth.

Pleasure starts coiling in his gut, and he can tell Sherlock is close, too.

“Come inside me,” he says, voice low and ragged, and he sounds like he’s barely holding on. Teeth close around the shell of his ear and pull, and the pain is sudden and biting. John hisses in a breath and thrusts inside him hard enough for Sherlock to keen, throw his head back. His skin glows pink under the dim light, and there’s the lightest sheen of sweat glistening there. John presses his open mouth against his throat, god he smells _so _good.

“You want that?” He grips him hard under his thighs, fingers probably leaving bruises, and John wants that. Wants him to see himself in the mirror the next day and know that John’s had him, touched him, fucked him like this. Sherlock’s muscles tremble around him with the effort of supporting his body.

Sherlock makes a helpless sound, a begging sound, which must pass for assent. His breath comes shallow against his ear.

“Tell me,” John demands, teeth leaving marks. They’ll blossom, red and purple, a canopy of ownership. It feels good. A little selfish. Still fucking good.

“Please. John, _please._”

And he knows exactly how to do that, doesn’t he, how to wrap John around his slender finger. How to pitch his voice high like that, breathy and a little wanton, knows how to make John’s body heat up and explode. Skin against skin, he sets a quicker, more punishing pace and Sherlock’s moans come out strangled and overwhelmed.

“_Yes, yes, yes, yes,_” he whispers, fingers tangle painfully in John’s hair. “Come on. John, come _on._”

He doesn’t touch Sherlock’s cock, because he knows that he can come like this, with John inside of him. John holds him tight, slams him against the wall with the force of his hips, angles his head upwards so he can fit their mouths together. It’s less a kiss and more a bruising mesh of lips, he can feel Sherlock’s teeth clack against his own, can feel a nip at his bottom lip.

“You gonna come like this? Hmm?”

“Yes,” Sherlock confirms, legs clamp around his waist and John can feel his body tighten. “God, John, _yes-“_

The rest of the sentence melts into a wordless moan, loud and clear in the silence of the night. Sherlock’s upper body arches and John can feel his nails scratch against his back, scrabble for purchase as he can’t keep himself against John anymore. John secures him under his arse, pulls him up and against his chest, holds him through the aftershocks as his body trembles and trembles. Warm wetness seeps into his shirt.

“_John, John, John-“_

“Yeah, that’s it-“ John says, and follows, teeth scraping against his jaw. Makes sure he’s as close as possible so that he can spill inside of him more effectively, and fuck, he’s gorgeous, he’s _gorgeous. _Hips move of their own accord, chasing release and his mouth forms Sherlock’s name like a benediction.

***

He lets go of Sherlock after that, and they’re both silent, breathing hard and damp with sweat. When he’d let him down, back on his feet, they’d been holding each other, just for a few seconds. Sherlock’s taller frame against his own, breath still coming in haphazard bursts. His fingers still clamped tight around his bicep.

And then he’d let go of him, as if he couldn’t bear to touch John any longer.

John swallows, does up his jeans and buttons up his jacket to hide the stains on his shirt.

Sherlock’s head is bowed, and John can tell, even in the darkness, that he’s shaking. He reaches a hand towards him, but Sherlock looks up immediately, and his eyes are narrowed, lip curled.

John almost takes a step back.

“Don’t,” he bites out.

He’s suddenly so different from the begging, pliant thing clutching on to him five minutes ago, it catches John off guard for a second.

Sherlock struggles with his clothes himself, buttons himself up with trembling fingers. Bends over to pull up his jeans, and John’s eyes are drawn to the pale fluid trickling down the inside of his thigh. It’s hidden from view soon enough as Sherlock zips up.

John watches, and feels something hollow and painful open up in his gut. It’s not fair, he thinks, that he can’t just bridge the distance between them and hold him, run his fingers through his hair, and just. Just.

Sherlock’s cheeks still glow pink and as he fastens the buttons on his blazer. He’s still a little unsteady, and he limps (John feels horribly guilty) past John, without a second glance, clearly trying to make his escape.

Hold on. He’s not even going to-?

“Sherlock,” John calls, and before he can stop himself, grabs a bony wrist.

“John,” Sherlock says, warningly. He doesn’t turn around. He’s still, still poised as if John just needs to let go of him and he’ll be out of there in a second.

John doesn’t know what to say. Every question just seems stupid and needy and Sherlock abhors things like that, so what choice does he have?

“Just tell me,” he says, whispers, almost. “Just tell me what I did. Just-“ and god, John realises in horror that his voice is cracking. “Sherlock, please. I want- we can fix this, can’t we?”

“You-“ Sherlock finally turns towards him, and his eyes are shining. “You didn’t do anything. Let go of me.”

_No, _he thinks of saying, for a split second. _Not until you explain. _

Except he can’t do that, because he’s not an arsehole.

_Tell me how to fix this. _

He lets go.

***

Sherlock doesn’t even try to hide the bruise on the side of his neck like he should, like it would be _decent _for him to do that, because John keeps finding his eyes drawn to that little patch of his skin and he _hates it, _he-

Sherlock must feel the heat of his gaze because he whips his head backwards, and their eyes meet. John swallows, cheeks flooding with heat and he looks away, out the window, down at his desk- anywhere but at Sherlock. He lets out a rough exhale, tries to calm his body’s reaction. They obviously haven’t spoken since…that evening, and perhaps it’s for the better. What would he even say? It was a mistake? Sherlock abhors the obvious.

<strike>Can I-</strike>

<strike>I want you back</strike>

***

His gut twists and twists with jealousy when he sees them with some- some _girl, _and Sherlock doesn’t even like girls, so why is he jealous? She’s laughing, running a hand down his forearm, leaning next to Sherlock like she wants to get closer. Sherlock looks vaguely disinterested, like he always does, he rolls his eyes and points out something in the girl’s notebook, like it’s so obvious, it’s written right here, can’t you see? She feigns surprise, John knows the look- he used to do it all the time, just to get Sherlock to pay him attention. He walks away from her after that, and the girl looks disappointed.

Sherlock walks past him like he doesn’t see him, except that doesn’t fool John for a second. Sherlock notices _everything. _He’s ignoring him on purpose. Which is fine. Because they’re not together and Sherlock doesn’t owe him anything.

_Is _he seeing someone else, though? The very idea is ridiculous. John can’t even imagine him with someone else- putting up with another person’s ordinariness, their stupid, dull pursuits. John imagines Sherlock opening up a newspaper article on his mobile and trying to get some vaguely handsome male specimen next to him more interested in the murder that happened in the next town over.

Holding hands, or- pressing their mouths together; Sherlock’s slender, pale limbs entangled with someone else’s, or-

John feels sick.

He rams his locker shut with more force than is necessary, put his books roughly inside his bag and makes his way towards the rugby field.

Get rid of all this excess energy, the loneliness crawling all over his skin, choking him.

***

It happens again, because the universe just wants to see John suffer, and Sherlock is an annoying git who won’t _leave him alone._

Sherlock works at the local library part time, but his shift starts from seven pm on Tuesdays, so John is expecting to see Molly at the counter instead. He needs some reference books for their literature assignment, and the school library didn’t have any more copies.

Instead, he finds no one at the issuing counter. He leans over and taps the wood twice, hoping there’s someone here because he barely has a few days to finish this. Instead, Sherlock appears from under the desk, straightens up in front of him behind the counter.

John freezes.

“Um,” he says, intelligently.

Sherlock raises one dark eyebrow, a cigarette hanging from his mouth, unlit. Ah. Sherlock does that, he remembers. Smokes cigarettes under the counter. There aren’t any smoke detectors in the library and he gets bored. Realising that John is probably going to take a minute to gather himself, he slips the cigarette from his mouth and put it delicately on the table.

How can he just stand there like that, looking gorgeous and unruffled and unaffected? John can barely breathe. There it is, that bruise, peaking right below the collar of his shirt. John put that there. They had sex barely a week ago, sex they definitely _should not _have had, and Sherlock just looks like John has chanced upon him at a mildly inconvenient time.

“I-“ John begins.

“Do you want something for the English assignment?” Sherlock asks, with a firmness that John is slightly grateful for. Maybe they can just ignore everything and pretend like nothing happened and they’re just two exes on mildly pleasant terms. John is here for a book. That’s all.

Except the nonchalance is a bit of a show, because John notices Sherlock’s fine boned fingers on the table, and his knuckles are white, his ears just a bit pink.

And it makes him feel better, to know that he’s not as unaffected as he is.

“Yeah,” John says, quickly, and brings out the list from his pocket. “These books.”

Sherlock takes the list from him, calculating gaze running over the names scribbled on the sheet of paper. “They’re old editions, we don’t keep them here. They’re back in the store room, I’ll have to catalogue them from scratch,” he sighs. “Very well. Come along then.”

  
The storeroom. Ah. John remembers that room quite well. They’d shagged there, plenty of times, emerging with wrinkled clothes and messy hair to meet a furiously blushing Molly at the counter. She’d barely be able to meet their gaze.

This time, there’s none of that. Sherlock sweeps out from the counter and simply makes his way towards the back, expecting John to follow him. John shoves his hands into his pockets because he doesn’t what else to do with them, until they reach the musty smelling, (kind of filthy really) room at the very back of the library, filled with bookshelves and boxes of unorganised texts.

“Hang on a second,” Sherlock says, eyes scanning the shelves. John leans against one of them, watching him, because it’s difficult not to, especially when he looks like that, in his stupid form fitting jumper and trousers. He bites his lip as he looks through the room. The tiny yellow bulb that’s screwed into the ceiling sways and shifts, Sherlock’s face keeps catching the shadows and god, it must be something about the room but John wants him (again). It’s ferocious in its stubbornness. He has to dig his nails into his palms to fight it.

“Ah,” Sherlock murmurs, eyes trained on a spot above John’s head. “There it is. One of them, at least.” 

He closes the distance between them, until he’s right in front of John, and why isn’t John moving? It would be more convenient for Sherlock to grab the book. Except Sherlock is stretching, reaching out an arm for the shelf above John’s head, and John has to hold his breath because Sherlock smells _amazing, _he’s close enough to touch, if he just leaned forward a little his mouth would be against his neck, and no, _no- _don’t-

Fuck.

“Here,” Sherlock murmurs, pressing back down on the balls of his feet. His gaze is trained on the book, he flaps it a bit against his thigh to get rid of the dust. “It’s a bit worn, but it should-“

He must notice John’s strained silence, because he looks down at him, and stops talking.

John feels warm. Too warm. Sherlock is too close and his jeans feel uncomfortably tight. He grips the bookshelf behind him, the wood digs into his palms but he doesn’t really care. Presses himself back so there is the least possible amount of space between the two of them.

“John?” he asks, questioningly. A little concerned. “You look flushed. Are you al-“

And something seems to click in his head. John can see the penny drop. He pauses, and there’s a quick downward flick of his eyes, down to his crotch, and back up again to meet John’s eyes.

“Oh,” he says, quietly, a little adorably, and John _hates _him.

“Yeah,” he responds, miserably. “Just give me the book, Sherlock.”

Except he doesn’t. There’s a flash of something in his eyes, and he’s coming closer, bridging the gap with a single step. He shoves the book back into the shelf, probably not where it’s supposed to go, and with horror, John realises that Sherlock is going to touch him. Before he can stop him, there’s a palm against his chest.

His heart rate speeds up, he feels almost dizzy. Sherlock must be able to feel it under his finger tips, the frantic pattering. His lips part, gaze wide and bright under his fringe of dark hair.

“What are you _doing,_” John chokes out.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, but his palm slides downward, a burning trail that John can feel over his clothes, down his abdomen, right above his crotch, and then Sherlock cups his hand over his half-hard cock, gently.

“Touching you,” he responds, simply, and squeezes.

_“Yeah, _but, why,” John fits a palm over a bony shoulder, grips him hard. “We shouldn’t.”

Once was a terrible idea, but twice? Twice is just stupidity.

Sherlock rubs him through his trousers, the heat of his palm bleeding through the cotton. Blood rushes from his head to his cock, and John feels light headed. Sherlock is everywhere, eclipsing everything, the scent of his fancy shampoo filling his nostrils.

“Why? You’re hard. I can help. It’s only logical.”

Logical. _Logical_? So he’s doing this for logic, then? Because everything Sherlock does has to be _rational, _doesn’t it. The break up must have been rational too, he supposes. The only logical solution to whatever _mess _Sherlock had cocked up in his head.

“You’re a prick,” he tells him. “We’re not- _fuck-_we’re not together.”

“Mm, you’re right,” Sherlock responds slowly, and he won’t stop _rubbing _him, hand moving up and down over the ridge in his pants, fondling him to complete hardness. “Should I stop?”

And when has a man in the history of the universe told someone to _stop _when their hand was on his cock? It’s not fair, and Sherlock _knows _this, because Sherlock knows everything. He grabs Sherlock’s collar, pulls him down to kiss him roughly, and it doesn’t take long for them to get back into the rhythm of it, the give and take. One snog and a fuck against a wall and John remembers everything.

Sherlock kisses him back, opens his mouth against John’s demanding tongue, fingers attacking the fly on his trousers.

“You’re so ridiculous,” John tells him, licking the shell of his ear. He doesn’t mean for it to come out quite so fond, except it does. “You know this is an awful idea. Like that shag we had on Henry’s porch.”

Sherlock stiffens against him, but only momentarily. He has John’s cock out now, and his movements are practiced and sure, long, elegant fingers gripping his hardness and pulling him. “What’s the point of bringing that up, John, unless you want me to stop,” he says, a little bitingly, and kisses him again.

Sound logic, John decides, and so what if it’s a bad idea? John and Sherlock have always been fond of bad ideas.

When he pulls away, John is leaking, achingly hard, and with a final peck on his chin, Sherlock slides gracefully down to his knees. _Oh. _He’s going to do…that. John can feel his hot breath flutter over the head of his cock, so close to Sherlock’s mouth. He thinks about just grabbing Sherlock’s hair, and just- except Sherlock doesn’t slip his mouth over him at first, he sort of- leans his forehead against his stomach. John stills, and something painful and cold washes over him a the unexpectedly tender gesture. He watches Sherlock’s frail back, his elegant muscles shifting underneath the material of his jumper. A hand fits itself into the back of his head, thumb sweeping over his scalp.

It almost makes him ask, _why are we doing this, _or say _I love you_, or _Let me fix this, _but then Sherlock is dragging his jeans down to his ankles and licking the crease of his groin, and the maudlin thoughts melt into white noise.

(Except they’re not maudlin, they’re just…thoughts.)

He can feel the flat of Sherlock’s tongue against him, moving up, dragging along his skin slowly, his hand at the base of his cock. He groans, low and deep, keeps his hand on his head but doesn’t push, not yet. One hand fits against his leg, fingers digging into the backs of his thighs, Sherlock swirls his tongue around the tip, round and round, _teasing, _like he always does.

“Fuck, Sherlock, that’s-“

When he starts to glide John’s cock inside his mouth and towards the back of his throat, John’s mouth falls open and his hand flails about to support him, a few books tumble to the ground. He looks down and sees Sherlock’s messy-haired head, curls flying every which way, bobbing up on down on his prick. The git must know John is looking at him, and he lifts his gaze- eyes fever bright and dark at the same time, so John can see his face, so he can see the way Sherlock’s lips stretch wide to accommodate him.

He’s a fucking show off and such a damn _tease _because then he slows down a bit, flutters his eyelashes almost coquettishly at John and tilts his head sideways so he can lick up the side of his shaft, catch any stray drops of pre-come with his tongue. John can see the glowing flush of his cheeks even in this dimly lit room, can smell Sherlock even in the musty air.

“You’re a fucking tease, you know that?” John says, and he gives his hair a little punishing tug. Sherlock just smirks up at him, before mouthing up the side of his cock.

And then he’s inside again, in the warm wetness of Sherlock’s mouth, and he gasps, pushing in- maybe a little too rough, because Sherlock makes a choking sound and he feels guilty because he likes that. A lot. Sherlock doesn’t pull away, though, he holds on, swallows around him and adjusts, lets his mouth hang a little slack so John can thrust inside him. Both his hands cup his hips now, and there’s just his mouth, his tongue expertly pillowing his bottom teeth because Sherlock is too fucking good at this, and John can hear him making those little breathy noises- the ones that mean he’s not getting enough oxygen because his mouth is stuffed full of John’s cock. “Yeah, _fuck, _keep doing that, perfect, you’re perfect,” he babbles, because Sherlock always brings him to this point, renders him wordless.

John groans, grips the silky strands of his hair, hard, tugs. Sherlock moans around him, John can feel the vibrations and god, what are they _doing._

One hand slips away from his hip and when John looks down he can see that Sherlock is using it to open his own fly and shove his hand down his pants, grip himself. And the thought that Sherlock is getting off to sucking him, touching himself while he’s on his knees, god, that does things to him. He’s fucking his mouth in earnest now, and maybe he should be gentler, but Sherlock’s not telling him to stop, so he uses the fingers in Sherlock’s hair to guide him up and down just the way he wants it.

“Gorgeous,” he tells Sherlock, looking down at him: his eyes a bit wet at the corners, drool dripping out of the sides of his mouth. He looks absolutely _wrecked, _but beautiful, like always. Sherlock’s hand moves vigorously under his pants and John’s own hips lose all sense of rhythm, thrusting erratically and a little bit selfishly as he uses his mouth. “Gonna come,” John warns him, because he doesn’t know if Sherlock wants it down his throat or not.

He holds Sherlock steady there, buries himself inside his mouth and tries to hold on to see if Sherlock will try to move away, but he doesn’t, just sucks him harder, John can feel the barest brush of teeth against his skin and fuck, fuck, he’s coming, he’s spilling into his mouth, and Sherlock makes a surprised, wet little sound but he doesn’t move away, allows John to come like that. John squeezes his eyes shut and sucks in a hard breath, his vision darkening a bit at the corners with the force of his orgasm.

“Sherlock, Sherlock,” he keeps saying, Sherlock’s hands around his hips and his tongue catching his ejaculate, it goes on for what feels like forever.

After what seems like an age the warm wetness is gone and he can hear Sherlock coughing a bit, rough exhales escaping his mouth as he tries to get his breath back. When John looks down, cheeks still warm and stinging bruises on his thighs and hips from Sherlock’s teeth, he can see Sherlock bent over himself, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

He looks up, and John doesn’t know if he’ll ever move again. Sherlock’s eyes are wide and dark, his mouth red and bruised and wet, and his cheeks are a little damp. John bends over, hauls him up by his collar, and Sherlock nearly stumbles, he’s so unsteady on his feet after being on his knees for so long- and kisses him.

Kisses him and kisses him and kisses him, he can taste himself on Sherlock’s tongue. Sherlock is too tired to kiss back but he holds on to John’s biceps and lets him sweep his tongue inside, lets him shove a hand down his jeans to wank him off because he still hasn’t come yet.

He keeps his mouth on him while he touches him, and it doesn’t last long. Barely a few pulls and Sherlock is coming with a strangled moan, burying his head in John’s neck and spilling hot and thick over his fingers. His hips tremble and cant into John’s hand and he’s shaking for what seems like hours afterwards, just holding on to John and John doesn’t know what to do, Sherlock is always drifting away, that was the problem.

Even when he’s right there it feels like he isn’t, not really.

He doesn’t know how long Sherlock holds on to him, body quivering. He doesn’t question it, just holds him back, tighter, if it’s possible. It’s not fair, that Sherlock is letting him touch him like this, because this is definitely not what people who have broken up do. This is for lovers, which they are not.

***

Except, afterwards, the routine is similar: Sherlock pulls away, turns around and pulls himself back together without looking at John.

“Molly’s shift starts in ten minutes. You can ask her to issue the book,” he tells him, and his voice is still rough. His throat must be sore. All John can see is his back, his hair, the way Sherlock runs a hand through it to fix it, although it’s always such a mess that it barely makes any difference.

“Sherlock,” he says, steadily.

Sherlock tilts his head just barely, angles it slightly backwards so he can see John from the corner of his eyes.

“We should stop."

“Yes,” Sherlock responds, and John is suddenly so furious with him, for putting them both in this situation, for touching him and pretending like this is normal, like this is just something that people do.

I hate you, he wants to say, and you’re a dick, and Make it stop. Just make it stop hurting, so much.

He wants to grab him, pull him back, shove him up against the wall and just get in his face and tell him that he’s being unfair, that this is not the way things are supposed to work.

“See you later,” Sherlock says, when John doesn’t reply to him, and leaves.

***

They don’t stop.

***

John has spent countless hours on his bed, racking his brains and trying to figure out what went wrong, what colossal mistake he possibly could have made that would have led to…this. He didn’t cheat. He never even _looked _at anyone else- how could he, when he had Sherlock- stunning, brilliant, gorgeous Sherlock with his clever mouth and his silver eyes, how could anyone even hold a candle to someone like that?

Had he gone too fast? Had he pushed him into something he didn’t want?

Why couldn’t Sherlock just _tell _him?

John would have tried to fix it, god John would have done _anything _to keep him.

***

It’s raining heavily when he just pulls out of the parking lot at school to drive back home. The car is old, a beaten-up hand me down hunk of metal that his mother had been planning to sell off anyway, but John had begged her to let him drive it. It’s not entirely safe and the radio had been stolen a long time back, but it gets him from Point A to Point B (well, _usually._)

He tries not to think about Sherlock, stretched out on the leather seats (posh boy more accustomed to heated leather, but he still liked these ones, even with all the stuffing leaking out of them), his slender limbs everywhere, pulling John on top of him and seeking out his mouth. It seems like ages ago. But it’s difficult, especially when there are still burn marks on the dashboard from when Sherlock had (accidentally) spilled acid all over it. (it was an _experiment, _John, consider yourself lucky for having helped in the progress of science)

He sighs, drives slowly and listens to the pat-pat-pat of raindrops spilling against the glass. He’s just passing the main school building when he sees a hunched over figure, walking (limping, a bit) on the street next to him. It only takes John a second to recognise Sherlock, with his head bowed and his hands stuffed into his trouser pockets, trudging along in the rain.

He immediately pulls to a slow crawl, leans over and rolls down the window. Rain splatters him in the face. “Sherlock,” he calls.

Why is he walking home alone in the rain? Why doesn’t he have an umbrella? Shouldn’t Mycroft have spotted him on one of him innumerable cameras and sent him a car?

Sherlock doesn’t look up, just sighs heavily. “Why are you following me, John,” he asks.

“Because you’re getting wet. Get in the car.”

“No.”

“Sherlock-“

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“_Ridi-_“ John huffs. “This is stupid.” He turns the ignition off, pulls to a stop, and steps out of the car, jogging a bit so he can step in front of Sherlock before he gets any further.

Great, now they’ll _both _get wet.

Sherlock utters a frustrated growl at having been forced to stop. He still isn’t looking at John, which John finds a little odd and a little maddening. His head is tilted to the side, curls sticking wetly to his jaw, school blazer dark and sopping wet with rain.

“I’ll drop you off,” John tells him. “Come on.”

Sherlock shifts uncomfortably from one foot to another, looking down at his feet. “I thought you said we should stop.”

“I’m just going to drop you home, genius. And can you just-“ John reaches forward a hand to grab him so he can force Sherlock to look at him, but he rather violently lurches out of his reach.

“John-“

Which is when John remembers that Sherlock had been _limping _just a few seconds ago. He’s always been stronger than Sherlock, even though Sherlock has faster reflexes and is agile, so it doesn’t take much for him to step closer, grab his frail shoulders.

“Are you hurt-“

“Let _go-_“

“_Sherlock, _stop moving-“

Sherlock just wiggles around a bit more, until he finally turns to look at him, teeth bared and cheeks flushed. “Fine. _Fine. _Just let go of me, John.”

_Ah. _There’s a bright purple bruise just around his eye, clearly from someone’s fist. Something dark and furious sweeps through his stomach at the sight of it, tightens in a band around his middle. Rage. He’s still holding on to Sherlock’s shoulders, with a bit more force than required.

Water sweeps over them both, it sticks to his clothes in damp, uncomfortable ways, but John feels very, very warm. “Who did this?” His voice trembles.

Sherlock squirms out of his grasp, and John lets him. He swipes a hand through his hair, pulls the wet curls back from his forehead, and now the bruise is just more visible, more horrible, vaguely obscene against his pale, flawless skin. “I’m not going to tell you, because you’re going to be tedious about it, as usual.”

John rolls his eyes, heaves a frustrated breath. It’s not the first time this has happened, obviously. Sherlock has almost zero self-preservation skills and a mouth that is precarious and volatile at best. In a one on one fight, Sherlock would probably come out on top, but Sherlock, almost _always, _gets into fights when there are at least three opponents. Or four. Because he’s an idiot.

“Will you at least get in the car, then?” John asks, a little desperately, gesturing towards it. “Your house is too far to walk to, anyway.”

Sherlock looks at him, something shifts in his expression, John isn’t sure what. He seems to take a second to weigh his options, and finally, with an annoyed little huff, he limps towards the passenger seat, opens the door and tumbles gracelessly inside.

It should be more awkward than it is, John thinks, as he follows suit and settles in front of the wheel. Considering the last time they’d been this close he’d had his dick in Sherlock’s mouth. Still, maybe it’s not a good idea to think about that now.

He starts the ignition and Sherlock rolls up the window before he wraps his arms around himself and tucks his chin into his chest. He remains stubbornly quiet, but shivers steadily under his wet clothes.

“Sherlock,” John says, tiredly, as he switches on the heat. “Take off your blazer. You’ll freeze.”

“Already trying to get me out of my clothes, John,” he smirks, albeit through chattering teeth. John rolls his eyes and resists the temptation to sock him.

“Can you, I don’t know, not do that,” John mutters. “Just take off your stupid blazer.”

Sherlock makes a very loud, put upon noise, but obeys nonetheless. John watches from the corner of his eyes as he unbuttons his blazer and shrugs out of it, flinging the wet ball of wool into the backseat. His white shirt clings to his skin, and John _really _shouldn’t be trying to steal glances like this. Except John can see the line of every individual muscle under the now transparent material, and god, _god- _he fixes his eyes on the road in front of him.

Sherlock toes off his shoes and socks, too, before bringing his knees up to his chest and settling comfortably in the front seat, in his stupid, damp, see-through clothes. His hair is starting to dry a little bit, settling into frizzy tangles that John has to try very hard not to touch.

“So, are you going to me tell me who it was?”

“No,” Sherlock replies, stubbornly. His pale toes wiggle on the edge of his seat.

“Hmm.” John sneaks another glimpse at him, and the purple, mottled ring around his eye just makes him furious again, so he goes another few minutes without looking.

They’re both quiet after that. The heating grate rattles ominously, but they’re both used to the strange sounds John’s car always makes. Sherlock’s shivering gradually subsides, and a few minutes later, John can see his eyelids drooping.

Warmth seeps through him at the sight, and the fondness that wraps around his heart is unforgiving and _horrible. _He considers shaking him awake because John can’t, John _can’t _concentrate if Sherlock dozes off like that, wouldn’t be able to stop himself from leaning over and touching him. Sherlock always looks so adorable when he falls asleep, face slack and child-like, looking his age, for once. It’s the only time he’s actually still.

“So, uh,” he says, valiantly trying to break the silence. Just a few more minutes. Or twenty. “Why didn’t Mycroft send a car?”

“Don’t jinx it,” Sherlock mumbles around a yawn. “If he’s keeping his abnormally large nose out of my business, who am I to question it?”

“Right, yeah,” John replies, rapidly realising that he’s running out of things to talk about. Before- before everything, they would have both been content to just enjoy each other’s silences but right now the quiet just feels _wrong. _John’s skin is crawling all over with- something, he doesn’t know. Maybe it’s the fact that Sherlock is so close and he can touch him, and someone took a hand to him and John doesn’t know he is, and he’s always been up for a good brawl, and Sherlock is just unfair for denying him that chance.

“So-“ he begins again, but Sherlock interrupts him.

“John, please don’t feel the need to engage in small talk. I’m grateful for your help but you know how much I abhor babble.”

And that’s that. John immediately clamps his mouth shut and continues to drive, all the while ignoring the way Sherlock stretches out, rests his long, lean legs on the dashboard and rests his head against his seat, the pale expanse of his throat right _there. _

But this…is infinitely worse, because now John has no one to keep him company except the thoughts in his head, and they start moving in that vicious circle again.

The questions, that is. Why’d he leave me, and the like. Or the kind of pathetic, how can he still be so _normal _about this when John can barely function.

This morning his mother had handed him a stack of university prospectuses and pamphlets, telling her in that concerned voice of hers that John only has a few more months to graduate, maybe he should give a thought to the medical career he’d been so desperate about?

He had been desperate about it, before.

Nothing seems to matter much, these days. He knows he’s being stupid but he didn’t want to think about it, then. Because university meant leaving- leaving Sherlock. While he was here, there was still a chance- a miniscule one, one in a million probably- of Sherlock changing his mind and taking him back, but if he’d left, he’d probably never see him again.

It’s stupid, but that’s what Sherlock does. Makes him stupid.

Eventually he pulls into the familiar lane and brings the car to a stop near Sherlock’s house. He half expects Mycroft to be standing on the porch, glowering at him from under his umbrella, demanding to know why John has his baby brother in his car when they aren’t together anymore. He’s not, though, obviously. Mycroft is back in London doing…whatever it is that Mycroft does.

He turns to see if Sherlock is stepping out of the car, but he stills at the sight that greets him. Sherlock has, just like John _knew _he would, fallen asleep in the seat, head lolling to one side, pale pink mouth just slightly parted. The only thing that is preventing him from completely falling over on top of John is the seat belt. His body is loose, hands hanging over the edges of the seat and his chest rising and falling gently.

John swallows, tries to concentrate past the rushing of blood in his head, the loud thumping of his heart. He reaches forward a trembling hand and lightly taps Sherlock on the shoulder. His shirt is still a little damp. Sherlock only stirs a bit, makes a tiny noise and then shuffles further into the seat. Which, _damn it, _why is he so adorable? John sighs, clamps his shoulder harder and shakes him.

“Sherlock,” he calls. “Wake up.”

“Hnnghh?” Sherlock’s eyes flutter open, his gaze lifts up slowly to meet John’s.

“Hey,” John says, softly. “You’re home. Ready to go?”

Sherlock stares at him for a few more moments, blinking sluggishly, gaze still clouded with the vestiges of sleep.

He yawns enormously before nodding and shifting in his seat to sit the right way. He rubs his eyes, a little frown appearing in his brow as he takes a second or so to acclimatize himself to reality again.

“Thank you,” he says quietly, “I’ll just-“ he reaches for the seat belt to unclasp it.

Because the universe hasn’t had enough of torturing him, it happens _again, _and this time, in the most cliché of ways.

Sherlock struggles for a few seconds with the clasp, apparently unable to set himself free. He makes an irritated noise. “it’s not-“

“You have to twist it a bit,” John reminds him, leans forward just a bit to see what Sherlock is doing wrong. “No, not like that-“

And then he’s leaning even further forward, over Sherlock’s seat, his body stretched over Sherlock’s, he reaches for the belt clasp, hand brushing over Sherlock’s as he does so.

Sherlock stills underneath him, his breath practically stuck in his throat. John himself is no better. Fuck. This was…a bad idea.

“You..er,” John twists the clasp like you’re supposed to, and with a _click, _it springs open. “Like that.”

“Ah,” Sherlock murmurs. “Of course.”

“Um-“ why isn’t he moving why isn’t he moving _why isn’t he moving_

“John,” Sherlock says steadily, warningly, face angled towards his. That’s all he says. He seems as incapable of saying anything else as John is of moving, getting away from Sherlock, not being _on top of him _anymore.

Sherlock’s eyes sparkle in the late evening light. John holds his breath as his eyes travel down his face, down the patrician nose to the perfect Cupid’s bow of his mouth, the slender curve of his neck. His palm seems to move of his own accord, away from where it holds the seat belt clasp to Sherlock’s thigh, over the damp cotton.

His heart thuds loudly in his ears.

John presses his mouth to his.

Sherlock doesn’t make any surprised noises, doesn’t push John back. He simply curves a hand around his bicep and kisses him back, deepens the kiss so smoothly that John’s head spins.

“You said we shouldn’t,” he reminds him, in that rumbling baritone of a voice, his hand moving to curve around the side of John’s neck.

Yes. _Yes, _he had, so why is John doing this to himself? He groans frustadedly against Sherlock’s mouth, hand clamping tightly around his thigh before he starts to pull away.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “I’m sorry. You’re right, I shouldn’t-“

Sherlock suddenly tightens his hand in the collar of his shirt, pulls him back. “No, John, don’t-“ He shivers, from cold or from arousal, John doesn’t know.

“Sherlock,” John replies weakly.

“Just,” Sherlock pushes him back, away from him, with enough force that John bounces back into the driver’s seat. Yes. Yes, that’s good. That’s smart. Sherlock should just leave while he has the chance, before John decides to go crazy again and pounce on him. What is _wrong _with him, he thinks, why would he do that.

Except Sherlock is _not _stepping out of the car. He’s untangling himself from that cursed seat belt and wriggling out of his seat, crawling over the lever and on top of John, settling over his lap, straddling him effectively, his back against the steering wheel.

And then he’s kissing him again before John can say _no, _before John can form any semblance of rational thought. Sherlock kisses him with pure, driven focus, cups his hands over his ears and angles his head upwards so he can drive his tongue into his mouth determinedly.

John’s hands settle over his waist, the instinct to have Sherlock as close as possible encouraging him to pull him closer. Sherlock’s warmth bleeds through him and his touch makes every weak protest die on his tongue.

He should have known they would end up doing this as soon as he’d asked Sherlock to step into his car.

It must _mean _something, John thinks, as Sherlock’s hands slide down his neck, his shoulders, settle over his chest and his teeth find a spot on his jaw to sink into. That Sherlock still wants him, like this. If he still wants him this way maybe they have a chance. Maybe John just has to figure out a way to fix it.

“Shut up,” Sherlock growls against his mouth, catching his bottom lip with his teeth.

“Didn’t-_ah- _didn’t say anything.”

“I can hear you thinking,” Sherlock’s fingers find the hem of his jumper, he grips the wool and begins to tug it upwards, pulls it over John’s head before diving back to kiss him again. John can feel the beginnings of his erection against his thigh, especially when Sherlock grinds slowly against him, swallows John’s groan into his mouth.

“Sherlock,” John murmurs, struggling to keep his voice level. Sherlock moves his lips down John’s chin, licks at the lobe of his ear before burying his face in the crook of John’s neck. “Oh, fuck, Sherlock, listen-“ Sherlock makes a vaguely interested noise, drags the length of his clothed erection over John’s.

“We can’t, not here. Someone will see-“ his voice hitches as Sherlock’s cold fingers slip under his shirt, rest over his abdomen. “Your parents, I don’t know.”

We shouldn’t be doing this anywhere, John thinks, but it’s kind of difficult to be logical when he has a lapful of Sherlock, with his slender legs on either side of his waist, his hands on his skin and his breath in his ear.

Sherlock hums, not taking him seriously at all. “Not if you’re quiet."

John considers protesting some more, pointing out that they could get an ASBO for this, possibly something more serious. Instead he flails a hand towards the heating and cranks it up a notch. It should fog the windows up a bit more, and then he switches on the ignition and backs the car up a bit, so that they’re out of sight of Sherlock’s house. Well, as much as they can be. The sun’s set and the street is dark for now, so he’ll take his chances. When he brings it to a halt, the car jerks and so does Sherlock, a little gasp of breath escaping his mouth as the movement pushes their erections together.

“You’re mad,” John tells him, hands moving to the buttons on his shirt. “A mad _idiot. _Do you know that?”

“Hmm, yes,” Sherlock leans forward to catch John’s mouth again, shrugs out of the shirt once John has finished unbuttoning it. _Fuck, _he’s gorgeous. John’s mouth waters at the sight of him, all smooth, pale skin, just a smattering of freckles over his chest, the delicate curve of his shoulders. He cups his hands over his ribs, drags him over the hard ridge in his trousers, and bends his head to take one rosy pink nipple into his mouth. Sherlock immediately releases a shaky breath, one hand clasping his shoulder and the other resting against the window pane.

“John,” he whispers, and it melts into a moan. “_Jo- _oh, god-“

Sherlock squirms in his lap when John bites down gently, his cock twitching in his uniform trousers. John takes pity on him and glides one hand downwards, rubs him through the material. He’s already leaking a wet spot through the cotton. His hips shift restlessly, trying to find something to rut up against but all he gets is John’s hand, moving _very _slowly. John licks over his sternum, leaves shining trails of saliva over his skin, sucks a bruise over the wing of a collarbone.

“John, _ah, _please- do you want to fuck me?”

John stills, his mouth hovering over Sherlock carotid artery, and then he looks up. Sherlock looks wrecked already, cheeks flooded with colour and his eyes dark with want. He raises an eyebrow expectantly, but he doesn’t look as smug as he was hoping, not with the pink flush creeping all over his skin and the wild tangle of his hair.

John’s heart squeezes in his chest and he raises a shaky hand to Sherlock’s face, tucks a curl behind his ear. Sherlock blushes harder at that, if possible. At least he doesn’t bat his hand away.

“Yeah,” he breathes, and kisses him. “There’s lube in the glove compartment.” Exactly where we left it, he thinks of adding, but Sherlock probably remembers.

Sherlock reaches a hand backwards and scrabbles at the glove compartment ineffectively, before John has to help him. He extracts the tiny bottle and Sherlock grabs it from him. John somehow manages to drag Sherlock’s trousers and pants off his legs, ball them up and throw them up on the dashboard. He’s still clothed himself, but Sherlock looks good, naked in his lap, his cock steadily leaking pre come over his trousers.

“Is this expired?” Sherlock asks, squinting at the bottle. John rolls his eyes and smacks him lightly on the arse.

“It hasn’t been that long, you twat,” he mutters.

It _feels _long, he thinks, but doesn’t say. Feels like ages. Sherlock smirks and squirts a generous amount over his fingers, before flinging the bottle into the driver’s seat. Supporting himself with one hand on John’s shoulder, he reaches behind himself.

“Come here,” John says quietly, pulling him closer and then leaning back against his seat. Sherlock raises an eyebrow even as he opens himself up with his fingers, mouth falling open as he pants.

“Enjoying the show?” he asks, raggedly.

John shrugs, glides his palms up his stomach, pulls at his nipples. He swallows past a hard lump in his throat. “While it lasts.”

Sherlock gives him a half-smile, his back arching and the hand at John’s shoulder gripping tighter. John fits a mouth against the side of his neck, breathes in. He smells lovely, like always, like rain, and smoke, a bit of sweat. The familiarity of it makes his heart ache. They’re really doing this again, then. John doesn’t know what to do about it, either. It’s not as though he can’t put an end to it, if he really wants to.

(he doesn’t want to, because then he won’t have him at all. Something’s better than nothing, right?)

Sherlock steadily drags his own erection over John’s, panting as he gets himself ready. He shivers when John bites at his skin. “John, don’t, I’ll-“

“Hmm?”

“I’ll c-come.” Sherlock’s bites his lip, eyes closed, dark lashes fan against his cheek like smudges of ink.

John grabs him by the hips again, encourages the grinding motion. Sherlock’s cock is making a mess all over his trousers. “No you won’t. Because I don’t want you to. Not yet.”

“_Fuck, _okay-“

“You done?”

“Yes, _yes,_” John doesn’t waste any more time, he unbuckles his belt and slides down the zipper, groans with relief as his cock is released. Sherlock drags his sticky fingers over his cheek as he kisses him, deep and _wet,_ gripping John and giving him a few slow pulls as he scoots closer. His hole slides over the length of his erection, Sherlock wiggles a little teasingly before lifting his hips just a bit, taking hold of John before he starts to lower himself on to his cock.

Sherlock sinks into him with a moan, damp hand slipping where he’s leaning it against the glass of the window. John holds him steady by the hips, utters a low groan when Sherlock bottoms out, plush arse against his thighs.

_“Fuck,”_ Sherlock’s hips make tiny, abortive thrusts as he settles to the feeling of John around him, before he wraps his arms around his neck and presses a forehead against his.

“John,” he says, voice trembling.

John runs a hand down his back, palm gliding over damp skin. Sherlock rolls his hips slowly, a soft exhale rushing out of his mouth.

God, he feels _amazing. _John resists the temptation to thrust upwards and fuck him harder. He settles for touching him everywhere, over his stomach, his chest, cupping his hands over the sides of his neck and kissing him, while Sherlock sets a rhythm for himself.

“Slow?” he asks, a little uncertainly.

John’s mouth stills against his. Slow? Not the kind of place conductive to slow, parked on a street corner with suspiciously fogged up windows. And _slow _means something else, doesn’t it? Slow isn’t the same as a blowjob in the storeroom. John swallows, and nods anyway.

It’s unfair, but it’s still _Sherlock._

“Okay,” he agrees, hands curling around the cage of his ribs. “Slow, then.”

Sherlock sets his mouth against John’s temple, hands cupping the back of his head as he starts to move. John has to keep very still, fingers clasped tight around Sherlock’s body, his throat dry from panting. All he can feel is the slick warmth of Sherlock around him, the torturously slow glide of his hips, his fingers tightening their grip in his hair.

John thrusts upwards experimentally, just a little, and Sherlock keens, sucking John’s earlobe into his mouth. “John, _nngh,_” He leans back, sets his palms against John’s chest and tilts backwards so that he’s leaning against the steering wheel. It’s a much, _much, _better angle and John gasps at the way Sherlock clenches around him. He bends forward and wraps his arms around his waist, kisses him everywhere he can reach.

Sherlock’s back arches as he settles into John’s lap, starts moving just a little faster, soft little moans spilling from his mouth. He supports himself with a hand around John’s shoulder, another on his thigh. “God, _god, _John-“

“Look at you, you gorgeous thing,” John croons, and takes Sherlock’s free hand to lace their fingers together.

Maybe he shouldn’t. But they’ve been making so many mistakes lately, what’s once more?

Besides, Sherlock only tightens his grip and holds his other hand as well, twining their fingers together.

Sherlock rides him with the same kind of passionate focus he devotes to his experiments, to solving crimes. His eyes flutter closed and his mouth falls open, cheeks flooding with heat as he chases his own release on John’s cock, hips moving with less finesse and more desperation. John watches him, because Sherlock is beautiful like this, sweat slick skin gleaming and fingers curled tightly in John’s hand.

“That’s it, that’s it, come on,” John encourages him, and Sherlock pins his bottom lip with his teeth, opens his eyes to look at John, and god, John is _gone._

_I love you, _he wants to say. _I love you so much it hurts._

Sherlock rips his hand out of John’s grasp, cups his face instead. John moans into his mouth, holds him tight against his chest, fucks into him while Sherlock starts moving his hips in sharper, quicker motions. He never was good at slowing things down, honestly.

“John,” he whimpers. “John, I-“

“Shhh,” John runs soothing hands down his front. “You’re so perfect. Come on, slow down a bit, yeah?”

“Touch me,” Sherlock demands breathlessly, grabbing John’s hand and pulling it to the apex of his thighs. “Please.”

It doesn’t take long after that. Even though John wanks him off slowly as possible, Sherlock shudders and stills after barely a minute, body going taunt like a bow before releasing itself, his mouth caught on nothing but John’s name, over and over again.

“John, _John, _I’m coming, I’m-“

“Yeah,” John kisses him. “God, you’re beautiful.”

When he’s spilled the last over John’s hand, John catches him by the hips and sets him more firmly onto his cock, bounces his pliant body against his lap. Sherlock makes little _nngh nngh nngh _noises and nothing else, head buried in John’s shoulder and arms wrapped tight around his shoulders.

John comes inside of him, cradling the back of Sherlock’s head as he does, whispering sentimental nonsense into Sherlock’s ear. He doesn’t remember half of it. He’s glad he doesn’t it, he bets it was _horrible_. Fuck, fuck, he holds him for as long as possible, until Sherlock falls on top of him in an exhausted heap, body still shaking.

They hold on to each other for what seems like an unforgivably long amount of time, their breaths evening out until they’re almost in tandem. John’s fingers are still buried in Sherlock’s hair, _stroking, _almost. He doesn’t realise he’s trembling until Sherlock pulls away a bit, enough to look at him.

“John? John, you’re-“ he wraps his hands around his shoulders, glides his hands up and down. “John, are you-“

“No, I’m not,” John answers before Sherlock can finish his question because he knows what he’s going to ask. Are you alright? And no, of course he isn’t, how can he be? How is any of this alright? How can Sherlock just- how can he think that they can do this, over and over again, and it’ll be _alright_? Why would John be such an _idiot _as to let it happen anyway, when he knew that nothing was going to come of it? When he knew he’d just be setting himself for another bout of heartbreak?

“_John_,” Sherlock repeats, urgently, hands cupping his face. “John, say something.”

“What do you want me to say,” John replies, surprised at the hollowness of his own voice.

He looks up at him, and Sherlock looks relieved for a slight second before concern and trepidation cloud his eyes again. The bruise around his eye looks even worse in the darkness. “John.”

“You won’t tell me what I did but you’ll do _this?” _John suddenly says, _snaps _at him, rather, gestures at the space between them.

Sherlock looks taken aback. “John,” he says, evenly, and John almost hates him, could punch him on that gorgeous mouth. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” John laughs, bitter and short, a little hysterical. ”I’m ridiculous.”

  
Sherlock sighs, a tired sigh, like John is being _tedious, _as usual, and climbs off of his lap. John hates himself for the way he can’t stop looking at him, at his pale skin, the graceful way he put his clothes back on. Buttoning up his now wrinkled shirt and zipping up his trousers with those slender fingers of his, John hates the way he can’t get _enough _of it.

Hates the way he loves him so much that he can’t let _go._

“We’ll talk when you’ve calmed down,” Sherlock continues, taking his blazer from the backseat. He’s still talking in that stupid, _logical _voice of his like _John _is being the irrational one, like John is the one who’s acting without reason!

John glowers at him, but Sherlock doesn’t spare him much of a glance. He unlocks the door and steps out. It’s still raining outside, and he doesn’t have an umbrella, but he doesn’t seem to care. John thinks of letting him go for a second, but they’re not done yet, damn it. He pushes open the door, calls him back before he gets any further.

“Sherlock.”

He stops, John can see his shoulders rise and fall as he heaves a breath. He turns back, raises an eyebrow at John.

Rain seeps into his shirt, his skin. John sets his jaw. “If you won’t tell me, then this stops. Now.”

“You could have stopped it whenever you wanted,” Sherlock reminds him, maddeningly. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because I’m not like you, am I?” John shouts. “I can’t just turn it on and off! No more of this. I can’t. I can’t keep doing this.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes, lip curling in the way it does when he’s furious. He steps towards John, close enough to touch, and then he does, poking him hard in the chest. His eyes flash. “_You_ kissed _me. _Both times. You kissed me, I accepted your advances. What, exactly, do you want me to stop?"

“And _you _broke up with _me,_” John snarls back, and then he’s grabbing him, curling his hands into his shirt collar, twisting him around and pushing him up against the hood of the car. It shakes with the sudden force. Sherlock makes a little gasp, eyes widening just a bit as he looks down at John.

“You broke up with me,” John repeats, softer, and saying it out loud, listening to himself form the words, just makes everything a thousand times worse. It makes him feel sick. Sherlock broke up with him, so why are they still doing this?

“I did it _for _you!” Sherlock shouts, pushing him back. John stumbles, partly from the force of his hands and partly from surprise. He squints at him.

“What the hell are you talking it about?”

Sherlock’s mouth flattens into a straight line and he looks away, seemingly frustrated with himself for having said anything at all. One hand curled around his hip and the other curled in his hair. He heaves a sigh between clenched teeth. “You don’t get it,” he says, quietly. “You don’t- I had to. I _had _to.”

None of this is making sense. John strides towards him again, closing the distance between them and then grabbing Sherlock’s chin to force him to look at him. “Sherlock. I don’t understand. What are you saying?”

Sherlock makes a frustrated noise, batting John’s hand away. “Of _course _you don’t understand, John! You’re simple, always have been-“

“Great, now you’re insulting me. Ta.”

“No, I’m not, don’t you see?” He pauses, as if weighing the consequences of continuing. John looks expectantly at him. Please, he thinks. Tell me. For once in your goddamn life just _tell me._ Sherlock must read the desperation in his expression because he closes his eyes, shudders a breath, and keeps going.

“Fine. You want to hear it? _You’re too good for me_. And I’m- I’m not good enough. What happens after? When you decide to leave? Hmm? Why would you stay, for someone like me? Everyone leaves. And you would too, because I’m not- I’m not made for those kinds of things. The things you like. Things _normal _people like. It was only a matter of time before I did something wrong or _bit not good _and you’d realise that, and then you’d _leave._”

John stills, his brain still trying to process what Sherlock has just said. He stares at him, blinking to get the rain water out of his eyes. Sherlock is breathing hard, eyes shining, and then he swallows, looking away, the heels of his hands digging into his eyes.

“Sherlock,” John rasps. “Sherlock.” He reaches for his wrists and tries to pull them away from his face, but Sherlock doesn’t let him. “_Look _at me, please.”

Sherlock finally allows him, and his eyes are red. John’s heart stutters in his chest.

“Can you explain that, a bit more? You think I’ll leave? Why would I leave? I love you. I _love _you, Sherlock. I can’t- I can’t imagine being without you, not for a second. Listen to me. Are you listening to me? I love you.”

He doesn’t know how else to say it, how to make _I love you _sound like it actually feels. Because words are nothing, words are cardboard things, and John’s feelings are uncontrollable and relentless. How do you put into words how you feel when someone you love walks into a room? How they set your entire body on fire? How you’d do anything for them, if it meant them being happy?

“_Exactly,_” Sherlock says, brokenly. “And I can’t- I can’t even say it back.”

“You don’t have to. You don’t have to,” John cups his hands over his ears, thumbs sweeping over the ridges of his cheekbones. “Just. Let me fix this. Please.”

“I don’t think I’m capable of it. Loving you. Loving anyone. I- I don’t know _how._ I don’t _know, _John.”

And he hates not knowing, doesn’t he? John presses his forehead against Sherlock’s. They’re both panting, both of them soaking wet and shivering from the rain but he doesn’t care. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “I’ll love you enough for the both of us, and when you’re ready, you’ll say it, yeah?”

“What if I’m never ready?” Sherlock asks, sounding horrified. “What if I can never say it, and you leave me?”

“I won’t,” John says, and kisses him, tries to make him see. “I won’t. Please.” He doesn’t know what he’s begging for, because he wants so many things. He wants Sherlock to stop hating himself so much, he wants Sherlock to _stay, _he wants to kiss him and hold his hand again and hold _him, _and make him tea and ask Sherlock to tutor him and he _wants, _god.

Sherlock makes a choked off, desperate noise, fingers digging into John’s waist and pulling him closer. “I thought, I thought that if you still wanted me in _some _way, I could keep you. Because I didn’t want to let go of you. So I kept- I kept doing those things. I’m sorry, John.”

“I don’t care,” John says through a rush of breath. His hands bury themselves in Sherlock’s hair. “Just come back. We’ll figure it out. I promise. Please, just come back.”

Sherlock sniffs, loudly, and John can’t tell if he’s crying, because it could be the rain, too. Sherlock buries his head in John’s shoulder and holds on to him tightly, wetness seeping into them both. He shivers against him. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

“Okay,” John whispers back, and holds him tighter.

“I think I do though,” Sherlock mumbles against his skin. “I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like, but I think I do, is that okay?”

He really means _is that enough _and John really does mean it, that he can love enough for the both of them until Sherlock is ready. So he pulls him back with a hand to his hair and kisses him, tasting rain and cigarette smoke and whatever it is that makes Sherlock uniquely _Sherlock. _

“Yeah,” he says, heart feeling full to bursting. “Of course it is.”

Sherlock doesn’t let go of him for a long time.

***

**Author's Note:**

> would appreciate some feedback even on this 15k worth of filth, pls,,,,


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